


the best of times, the worst of times

by nise_kazura



Series: the ring made me do it [2]
Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Cock Rings, Crack Treated Seriously, M/M, Overstimulation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut, Voyeurism, happy birthday frodo lol, listen if u wanted logic in ur porn idk wat to tell u, this fic's alternate title is "one cock ring to rule them all"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:21:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26605153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nise_kazura/pseuds/nise_kazura
Summary: Sam grabs Frodo’s hand and shoves it down his pants. Frodo freezes. His fingers search the base of Sam’s dick, feeling the familiar smooth texture of metal there.“It won’t come off,” Sam sobs.If the ring has a mind of its own, it must think itself very clever for weaselling them into the position they’re in now.For the ring has, somehow, fallen onto Sam’s cock. It sits, tight and snug, towards the base where it cinches around Sam’s flesh. Sam is by no means small—the ring’s strange magic must have allowed it to change to suit. Sam is still hard, the tip of his cock flushed angrily, and why, oh why, is this happening?
Relationships: Frodo Baggins/Sam Gamgee
Series: the ring made me do it [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1935442
Comments: 6
Kudos: 50





	the best of times, the worst of times

**Author's Note:**

> sam: oh no the ring is stuck on my cock and wont come off whatever shall i do mr frodo  
> frodo: fuck me  
> sam: how does that solve our problem, at all  
> frodo: idk sauron's a thirsty bitch, maybe he just wants a show?
> 
> anyways, it is frodo's birthday. i give him dick as a present. enjoy

Sam wonders if, when the elves gifted them the cloaks, they’d anticipated this outcome. Frodo huddles against him, breath misting against Sam’s face, and though the skin on his hands are dry and cracked it feels good against Sam’s swollen, heated flesh.

It always feels good with Frodo.

The cloaks are draped over their laps, but Sam doubts they’ll hide what’s happening underneath. Fluid leaks over his fist as the head of Frodo’s cock emerges and disappears between his fingers. Frodo’s face is slightly flushed, dewy. He blushes pretty, like a watercolor stain. Unlike Sam, who just gets itchy and blotchy. Sam’s breath tastes stale in his mouth so he tries to breathe through his nose, nostrils flaring as he bites back his groans. Their foreheads are touching, hair curling together like fiddleheads. Sam always feels inept next to Frodo, but in this case Frodo is just as affected as he. His eyes flutter as he sways in place, but his hand on Sam’s dick is quick and sure.

Sam can barely keep his eyes open. The muscles in his neck are loose, his head drooping back. He wonders how long until the men holding them captive notice what they’re doing. It’s unwise, to do this, but Sam had never been able to say no to Frodo at the best of times (and this is definitely  _ not _ the best of times). And this is the first time they’ve been separated from Gollum in awhile. They’re both pent up.

Frodo’s hand is loose, the rhythm faltering. He must be getting close. Sam bites his lip.

“Frodo…” he whispers, and opens his eyes again.

Cold shoots through his veins and his hand stutters from where it is on Frodo’s cock. Frodo’s other hand is clutching the ring. The ring, which is no longer hanging around his neck, but held, free of chain, between Frodo’s fingertips. He has a strange expression on his face, eyes dark and stormy as he gazes upon the ring in a fevered daze.

“Mr. Frodo!” he cries out in shock and terror, and his pre-ejaculate-slick hand reaches for Frodo’s on instinct, to hold, to protect, to reassure.

Frodo jerks back and Sam’s hand swipes the air, knocking against Frodo’s, and the ring slips.

There’s a breathless fumble, fingers scrabbling and missing, the glint of gold winking in the dim light as it slides through the space between them and then—

“Sam?”

Frodo’s eyes are wide and fearful, his voice just a touch too high. There’s a howling in Sam’s ears, and the world is reduced to shadowy smears that dance and move. He’s exposed, uncovered, they’re going to find him and  _ he’s coming he’s coming he’s coming— _

“Sam!” Frodo looks around frantically.

The ring glows like fire. Like a beacon, a signal to all that would bring them harm.

Sam knew, of course. The ring has a mind of its own. It works in strange ways. Can slip off your finger if it wants to. Manipulate its bearer, and those around it. There’s a reason why Frodo wears it on a chain. But, he’d never—

Frodo’s hand finds his knee and suddenly Sam is knocked onto his back, Frodo hovering above him as he pins Sam down. Frodo’s face is twisted into something unfamiliar, but underneath there lurks a panic.

“Sam, give me the ring.”

His eyes wander, his hands fisted in Sam’s clothing in a tight, desperate grip.

Sam’s mind is a white screech of fear, and he tugs at the ring with both hands. He can’t get a grip on it, and it won’t budge. His cock throbs to the time of his heartbeat.

“I—I can’t—Mr. Frodo—”

“Sam.” Frodo’s eyes are cold, and his hand finds Sam’s throat. “Give me. The ring.”

“It won’t—It won’t come off!”

“Sam, you  _ must _ give me the ring!”

“I’m trying! I’m trying, Mr. Frodo! I swear it! It won’t come off!”

Frodo sneers. His hand tightens around Sam’s throat.

“If you won’t give it back to me willingly—”

Sam grabs Frodo’s hand and shoves it down his pants. Frodo freezes. His fingers search the base of Sam’s dick, feeling the familiar smooth texture of metal there.

“It won’t come off,” Sam sobs.

If the ring has a mind of its own, it must think itself very clever for weaselling them into the position they’re in now.

For the ring has, somehow, fallen onto Sam’s cock. It sits, tight and snug, towards the base where it cinches around Sam’s flesh. Sam is by no means small—the ring’s strange magic must have allowed it to change to suit. Sam is still hard, the tip of his cock flushed angrily, and why, oh why, is this happening?

Frodo squeezes Sam’s cock, tugging hard enough to make him squeak. His hands slip over the ring, unable to find purchase, and slide up Sam’s shaft in mockery of what they’d been doing just moments before. He tugs a few more times before repeating Sam’s words back to him in dumb shock, “It won’t come off.”

Sam is nearly in tears now. He can feel it. The Great Eye. Is this how Frodo feels all the time? This spine-raising, tingling fear? It’s searching, ever-searching, roaming the land desperately.

“What do we do? What do I do?”

“The ring wants to be found,” Frodo whispers. “It won’t come off unless we give it what it wants.”

Sam moans in fear. The Black Riders will come. They’ll come, and they’ll take him, and all will be for naught, and Middle Earth will come to darkness, and Frodo will be all alone without his Sam—who will make sure he eats right? Who will rub his ankles and sore calves? Who will hold him through his night terrors?

_ No, our master is strong, _ a voice whispers to him.  _ It’s you that will be done in without him. _

“Sam,” Frodo cannot see him, and yet his gaze pierces. “Sam, what does the ring want.”

What?

“I—I don’t understand—”

“The ring wants to return to its master. But in order to get that, it tries to pass between bearers, to drive them to madness, to brew darkness. What does it want, now? What is it telling you?”

Frodo’s form flickers, stretching and blooming into windswept smoke. Sam can feel the gaze of the Great Eye upon him now. He sweats under its terrible weight. All is shadow around him, but for the ring, and Frodo’s blue eyes. He takes a deep breath, and tries to listen to the haunting whispers that he’s been desperately trying to close his heart to. He looks down at the ring. At his cock. It whispers to him of soft skin, quiet sighs, improper desires.

“You,” he whispers. “It wants you.”

Frodo doesn’t seem surprised when he feels Sam’s touch upon his lips. Upon his softening cock. Sam presses him back against the cave wall, crawling between his thighs. Frodo reaches out until he touches Sam’s shoulder, and runs his hand down to his elbow, feeling the firm muscle of his arm.

“Then give it what it wants,” he says. “Take me, Sam.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“It wants to poison our love. But it won’t. It can’t. But we must do something to get the ring off, Sam. We must try.”

Sam doesn’t see how this will help their situation, but Frodo has always known a bit more about these things than Sam does.

“Then… Then it will come off?”

Frodo’s hand travels from Sam’s elbow to his chest, down his navel. His fingers lightly tickle the skin around the ring, a soft, curious touch.

“I don’t know, Sam. Maybe the ring wants us to be preoccupied so that we cannot run when they find us. Wearing the ring draws the Riders to us. It simply wants you to wear it as long as possible, I think.”

Sam’s breath shudders out of his chest. Frodo is stroking him again, his other hand reaching behind to feel Sam’s hip, to squeeze his right buttock. Frodo is hard again, and he lifts his hips as he presses Sam closer to him.

“Then we should—we should be ready— _ oh—” _

The whispering in Sam’s ears rise. He forgets what he had been saying, what he had been thinking. All he knows is Frodo’s hand upon his cock, the feel of him rubbing up against him, the stretch of skin on Frodo’s neck as he throws his eyes back, eyes fluttering closed.

“Take me, Sam. Take me, take me.”

Sam should say no. The ring must be working its magic on them. But Frodo is so beautiful, and Sam is so in love. The Great Eye is fixed upon them, the world is ending, they are lost and at the mercy of Big People, their friends are far and out of reach, they may die with their pants around their ankles and Sam has never been harder in his life. Frodo is squirming in his lap, panting into his mouth, begging for him in that voice of his. 

Sam’s mouth is dry, but he musters as much saliva as he can and spits onto his fingers. He places his other hand at the base of Frodo’s spine, cupping his pelvic bone, and lifts him down so that his ass is angled upwards and his thighs are spread across Sam’s. Sam hasn’t even begun yet, but Frodo moans, a delicious, syrupy sound that bleeds down the back of Sam’s neck and spine. Sam’s blunt fingertips probe at Frodo’s entrance and he’s so aroused he’s dizzy with it. 

Frodo is tight. Sam is mesmerized by the way he squeezes around him, the way it looks when he pushes in and out. It’s too dry, still. A bit painful. But Frodo is warm, and he doesn’t look like he minds. He doesn’t look like he minds at all. In fact, he’s wide-eyed and red-cheeked and has that look on his face that could be pain or lust (they look remarkably similar on Frodo). 

“Sam, hurry,” he pleads. “Oh, I am ready, please, Sam…”

It’s too dry, and Frodo is too tight, but Sam is not in the business of denying his master anything. So he lines up his cock and pushes in.

Frodo’s body is like putty in a mold, his channel plastering itself around Sam’s cock and memorizing its shape. Frodo gasps and bites his lip, his eyes watering. But Sam can’t stop. He can hardly breathe. Frodo’s hole is clamped down around the head of his cock and the heated pressure is bliss. He’s shaking. He wonders if Frodo can take all of him like this.

His heart pounds in his ears, and he’s hyper-aware of the looming threat of darkness, of Sauron, of the Great Eye. A dark voice curls into his mind.

**I see you,** it says. **I can see you.**

Sam whimpers in fear, but presses in, inexorable. It seems to go on forever. Frodo’s mouth falls open silently, breath and voice dammed up in his chest. Sam’s hips touch his ass, and the dam breaks in a choked whimper. Frodo looks down, one hand pressing up against his navel, as though he wishes to touch Sam’s cock even as it nestles deep inside him.

“Oh,” he says. “Oh. Oh, Sam. Fuck me.”

A roaring fills Sam’s ears, mixed in with screeches snapping in the wind. Fell voices whispering dark things in his ears. But Sam is but a gardener, and he knows nothing of that which they speak. 

He groans pitifully and presses his face into Frodo’s shoulder. Then he pulls out just slightly, breathless at the drag of skin on skin, the unforgivable clamp of Frodo’s body, and thrusts forward again.

“Frodo,” he breathes, and kisses him. The Great Eye is fixed upon them, Sauron’s voice is in his head, and Frodo is in his arms. After everything that’s happened already, might as well, he decides.

* * *

Faramir strides past his men. The pitiful creature they’d captured had given him all the information he needed to know.

The Ring. The One Ring. That’s what this has all been about.

He heads towards where they’re keeping the halflings. He holds in his mind a picture of the dark-haired one with blue eyes. The one that had pleaded to be set free. Perhaps, the one that Boromir had died for. Something squirms in his chest at this thought, and he pushes it away resolutely. His father will want the ring. He will bring it to him, as is his duty as a son of Gondor.

He turns a corner and barely gives the guards a glance before stepping inside.

And stops.

Only one halfling is there. But that’s not what caught his attention.

He is completely exposed. Some strange magic is at work here—half his body floats off the ground. He’s erect, eyes closed and face flushed, and his—his—

Faramir can see right into him. Are—are halflings…built differently? Surely—

The halfling’s asshole gapes open, and seems to move. It widens and narrows incrementally. Faramir can see the way the flesh stretches and gives, as though something were…engaging with it. He can look straight in, to the soft, pink insides as it shifts and pulsates around something unseen.

This is…unnatural. And unexpected. Is the halfling fraternizing with some dark creature?

The halfling’s lips, cracking but shapely, part on a low groan.

“There! There, Sam,” he says, back arching. The flexing of his hole quickens and his toes begin to curl.

Sam? Is that not the name of the other halfling? Is he under some kind of spell?

The halfling’s face contorts, eyes scrunching up as though he were in pain, and lets out a low sound like dying. Faramir has heard sounds like that in the sickbay when he visits his men. The halfling’s cock jerks, and ejaculate spurts out up to his chin.

* * *

Sam has always prided himself in making Frodo come first, but this time he can’t quite take credit, given that he couldn’t come even if he wanted to. 

“The Ring,” he gasps. “It’s too tight. I can’t—I can’t, Mr. Frodo.”

“Can’t what?” Frodo asks tiredly, limbs lax and orgasm-loose.

Sam flushes. Even when they’re having sex, he has problems being vulgar around Frodo.

“Can’t…find release.”

“Oh,” says Frodo. “Well all right then.”

He stretches languorously and rolls onto his stomach, lifting his hips off the ground.

“Go on, then.”

Sam gapes. “You want to—are you sure?”

Frodo gives a sigh and wiggles his hips. “Yes, Sam. The Ring isn’t done with us yet, it seems. So we must keep going.”

Sam’s hands are already on Frodo’s buttocks, where he squeezes appreciatively. He feels uncertain, a little bit guilty, and morally filthy. He’ll never be able to look his gaffer in the eye again.

“But you just…”

“Sam, you have a cock that will stay erect for the foreseeable future due to magical means. Use it. Fuck me.”

And Frodo arches his back further, pressing his hands against the wall.

Sam gulps. He looks down at his cock, still angrily flushed and very erect. His gaffer always said hobbits that think with their nether regions don’t get nowhere in life. Well. Sam has already gotten all the way to Mordor, and he doesn’t really want to go much further, anyway. So he lets the head of his cock poke the cleft of Frodo’s ass, and pushes back in.

Frodo’s entire body shivers, rippling under Sam’s hands. He lets out a low stream of “ah”s and “oh”s, and his hands curl into fists. Sam begins to thrust again, angling himself expertly, running his hands over Frodo’s sensitive sides.

“’s it too much?” Sam asks, worried.

“Yes,” Frodo gasps. “Yes, yes, yes, yes,  _ yes—” _

Sam isn’t sure if he’s even hearing him anymore, and he doesn’t think he can stop anyway. It feels too good. He watches the way his cock appears and disappears inside of Frodo’s ass, and Frodo squirms and whines, growing steadily louder as he increases force and ups his pace.

Frodo’s eyes begin to water, and his cock is beginning to harden again. Sam reaches for it, but when he touches it Frodo lets out a wail so loud that Sam jerks away. He’s nonsensical, overstimulated. Sam decides to play with his nipples instead, running his hands up Frodo’s chest and rubbing at it over his shirt.

Sam can feel his balls drawn up, full and ready to burst. But the ring is tight, and he’s still hard. He’s all animal sensation now, living for the feeling of something tight and warm around his cock. He can’t even bring himself to stop when he notices that Frodo is crying, sobbing and squirming as he’s filled again, and again, and again.

“Sam!” he cries out, and another dribble of cum escapes the tip of his cock.

* * *

The halfling  _ loves _ it. His hair sticks to his forehead in sweat, his body all sinuous movement, desperation making his eyes roll back in his head. Faramir still hasn’t moved. He’s frozen except for his cock, which is twitching and hard.

When the halfling collapses, arms giving away and ass still in the air, Faramir finally decides that enough is enough. He strides forward, intent on grabbing the halfling and forcing him to his feet, when his toe hits something he cannot see.

He trips.

It’s a small stumble, but he plainly hears a yelp from around the area of his knee. The halfling lets out a low, despondent whine, and when Faramir chances a glance down, his hole has closed.

Faramir looks around wildly, searching for anything that could point to him where the invisible one is. He draws his sword.

“Sam?” the halfling calls out. Then his little hand grasps onto something, in mid-air.

“I’m here, Mr. Frod— _ oh.” _

The little whore is using his hands to feel his way around the invisible one. And evidently, he’s found what he’d been looking for, because he opens his mouth and dives forward like a man possessed. Faramir can see the bulge in his throat, can hear the messy slurping, the chorus of moans. Never in his life has he witnessed such shameless behavior. And in a halfling! One that seemed so soft-spoken and solemn!

His cock is thinking about what it would be like to make the halfling choke around  _ him.  _ He can see how the halfling uses his tongue to massage what’s in his mouth, swirling around the tip as he pulls back before pushing back down.

Faramir reaches down and fists his fingers in the halfling’s hair—for a split second he imagines pushing his face towards his own crotch—and pulls him away from his prize. He whines hoarsely, looking up at him with glazed eyes, jaw hanging open and tongue still hanging out, and—

The ring sits in his mouth. Faramir watches as it shrinks down to a normal size. He looks down, and the other hobbit is visible again, looking just as shocked, with his cock hanging out of a flap in his clothes.

“The Ring,” he says stupidly. The halfling at his feet reaches up and takes it out of his mouth, looking down at it, before slipping it onto a chain and hanging it around his neck. He tucks it underneath his shirt, which is rumpled and in a disarray, and then gives him a doubtful and mistrustful look.

Faramir feels affronted at that look.  _ He _ isn’t the one on his knees with no pants on.  _ He _ isn’t the one whose anus was on for show in the middle of a camp full of men!

“To think that the One Ring would be used so carelessly, and for such purposes,” he hisses.

“Hey now—” the other one begins.

“Shut up.” Faramir barks. “The Ring will go to Gondor. And you two will be coming with me.”

And then he strides out, trying his best to will his cock to soften, calling out orders to his men.

* * *

Sam stares, open-mouthed as the man walks away.

“It’s not what it looks like,” he says, weakly, though the man can no longer hear.

_ That’s fair, though, _ he thinks to himself.

A soft touch has him looking back at Frodo, who regards him with half-lidded eyes. Frodo’s hand is on his cheek, and the other one is trailing down his chest. His eyes flicker down to Sam’s cock, still hard.

“Shall I take care of that for you?”

Sam flushes from head to toe, and gulps.

Well. He’s never been able to tell Frodo no in the best of times.

**Author's Note:**

> frodo's asshole: :o!!!!!  
> faramir: r u ok  
> frodo's asshole: >:O!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  
> faramir: i feel like ur joking w me but i dont know enough about hobbits to tell
> 
> i like to come up with dumb jokes while writing my fics. have another
> 
> The great eye: 👁  
> Sam: watch as the power of our love defeats u  
> Sam: *uses his magic cock to cure frodos depression*  
> Sam: ha, see  
> The great eye: 👁👅


End file.
